Shira

by Agnon, S. Y.

  Once more, Herbst’s attention wandered. Sacharson didn’t notice and kept on talking. Sacharson said, “You can’t imagine the contempt of the hotel workers. I myself took a hard look and began to analyze the rules. It wasn’t the crucifixion of Christ that aroused hatred toward Jews. Even if we accept the lie, which we know by now is a lie, and say the Jews betrayed Christ, it was without the people’s knowledge that he was betrayed. It was the high priest Caiaphas, a Roman lackey, who betrayed him, and it is an accepted fact that Caiaphas was killed by the Jews for delivering Christ to the Romans. It is the Gemara and our legal codes that arouse hatred, setting Jews apart from other nations through rules governing food and drink and every other human function, training Jews to consider themselves so refined, excellent, superior, and attractive that it would be beneath the dignity of such aristocrats to eat at a table with Gentiles, much less marry them. All this in the name of a religion invented by the rabbis.”

  Herbst said to Sacharson, “I’ll make a confession, if you promise not to report it to the Orthodox authorities. I don’t avoid forbidden foods.” Sacharson sighed and said, “You’re teasing me, Mr. Herbst. You’re joking. It’s not fair to tease a person when he exposes his wounds.” Herbst said, “Forgive me, Mr. Sacharson, I’m no theologian. Religious faith and practice are not my subject.” Sacharson smiled bitterly and said, “Of course, of course. Religion and faith are of no interest to the learned Dr. Herbst. The renowned scholar Dr. Herbst, is engaged in study. As we all know, Dr. Herbst is engaged in…in…Forgive me, Mr. Teacher, but I have never inquired or been informed exactly which department you are in. I don’t distinguish between disciplines, and academicians are all the same to me, in that they know everything. Except for one thing: what that highest element in us is after, the wretched soul lent to us by our Creator to endow us with generosity and mercy.” Herbst shrugged his shoulders as he calculated how many meters it was from here to his home and how much chatter he would have to endure from the convert before being rid of him. Sacharson kept talking. “A schnorrer, afflicted with boils, begs at every door and gives thanks to God every morning for not having made him a Gentile. The Gentile he deplores is a workingman whose labor supports those Jews who throw occasional coins to beggars. Were it not for that Gentile, who allows those Jews to support themselves at his expense, the philanthropists who serve Abraham’s God would starve to death, and the rabbis would have to do without that daily blessing directed to God, who has ‘not made me a Gentile.’ Isn’t that so, Mr. Herbst?” Herbst said to him, “I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to prayer.” Sacharson added, “A Jewish whore who makes herself available to every British soldier for three or four shillings is certain that God values her more than a Christian nun who devotes her life to God’s work, good deeds, and curing the sick and caring for orphans.”

  Herbst scratched his head and said, “Mr. Sacharson, I don’t get the drift of your words. I hear only one thing: you want to justify the fact that you abandoned the religion of your fathers and took on a more permissive one that lightens life’s burdens.” Sacharson’s smile was erased, and he said sadly, “Dr. Herbst, you know where my words are headed, and you know what I mean. You and your friends, having cast off all the rituals, are no different from a Gentile or a heretic, yet you consider yourselves superior to me. If you please, Dr. Herbst, in what way are you superior? Is it because you are without religion and without faith? Do you think it’s possible to exist without God? Let’s assume that an individual can get by for a while without faith. For an entire lifetime, it is definitely not possible. Even if he could live a lifetime without faith, no community, no nation could survive. Without religion, anarchy takes over. Anarchy allows evil to prevail, which, in turn, leads to annihilation.” Herbst answered calmly, “Then are you saying that all Jews lack faith? Anyway, Sacharson, I don’t deal with these issues. I don’t mean to offend you when I say that your entire conversation is superfluous to me.” Sacharson sighed and said, “My conversation is superfluous to you, but not to me. It is the welfare of my brethren that I’m after. You are good people, Herbst. You and Mrs. Herbst. And it goes without saying that you wouldn’t exploit anyone. Still, ask yourselves: how does your Firadeus support her family, whose breadwinner was killed over the garbage of Talpiot? Yes, he was killed over the garbage of Talpiot. Do you know what that means? This is what it means. A band of bourgeois Jews – let us call them devoted Zionists – build themselves a special neighborhood far from the city and from the stench of other Jews in order to enjoy the fresh air, or, in their words, to rebuild the country. They live in new houses, in a healthy environment, eating and drinking, enjoying life, and filling their bellies with delicacies. The surplus – what they don’t manage to deposit in their intestines – spoils and is put in garbage cans, which they hire a poor man to dispose of. You have a term for him in modern Hebrew, in your Hebrew that invents new words and puts the old ones out of mind, so that those who are proficient in the new language can’t understand a line of Scripture. The garbage man goes from house to house, clearing away the garbage. He is often disheartened by what he sees in those garbage cans, because what a Talpiot housewife throws out is enough for a poor man and his family to live on contentedly. Patience, Mr. Herbst. I’ll get back to Firadeus. You hired her for three lirot a month, and you pay her promptly, like the university, which pays its professors promptly. And, for this sum, she is allowed to expose herself to those dangerous armed marauders. Your conscience is clear because, after all, you are paying her. If Firadeus is killed, you and Mrs. Herbst will call on her grieving family, and I have reason to assume Mrs. Herbst would bring something from her own kitchen and leave some money on her way out. My words are not directed only to you, honored doctor. They are directed to all the just and righteous souls in Jerusalem and elsewhere who see their brethren wasting away and leave them to starve. You know, honored doctor, were it not for us, disciples of Christ, who stand by them, scores of Jews would have been erased from the world.” Herbst said, “Once again, I must inform you that you’ve come to the wrong address. I don’t do social work, and this sort of conversation goes in one ear and out the other.” Sacharson said, “Let me repeat what I said: I strive to improve the lot of my brothers, though you see me as someone who has sold his soul and his God for financial gain. Isn’t that so, Mr. Herbst? I don’t deny that among my friends there are some who have no conscience and convert for material gain. I am not one of those. I am definitely not one of them. Whatever I do is directed toward spiritual improvement, and I am especially eager to rescue Jews from oppression by the rabbis. Israel has suffered at the hands of Esau and Ishmael, but Karo’s Code of Law, preceded by the Talmud and the writings of Maimonides and, above all, the dictates of the rabbis, have been even more harmful. Those sadists, in the name of the dot on an i, because of a trace of impurity in the Passover food, see fit to starve an entire city, forbid contact between man and wife, doom an abandoned young woman to a solitary life, and…and…I’ve already forgotten the teachings and the villainy that are heaped on our unfortunate people through the righteousness of the rabbis. The rab – “ Before he could complete the syllable, he grabbed Herbst’s arm, shouting, “Get down, all the way down!” Herbst dropped to the ground, thinking: Why is he yelling at me, and why did I get down? While he imagined he was asking Sacharson this question, or that he had already asked him but hadn’t heard his answer, the air was pierced by an explosive sound. He smelled gunpowder and realized a bullet had been fired. His thoughts were arrested, his hair stood on end, and he felt a chill that seemed to run between his skin and his flesh, as if the skin had been peeled back and a chill had been trapped in the exposed space. His perceptions were clouded by an odd sensation. Odder still, the very sensation that clouded his perceptions made him more alert. “We’re safe,” Sacharson whispered. He took off his hat and wiped his brow, then his head, looking to see if there was any blood on his hand. Then he whispered to himself, “It was foolish to walk.” He t
ook Herbst’s hand and repeated, “We’re safe, we’re safe, but it was foolish of us to walk.”

  They went on in silence, their hearts pounding, each of them deep in thought. Sacharson was thinking: If that Arab knew I was not one of those Zionist Jews, he wouldn’t have aimed at me. Anyway, anyone who was born a Jew shouldn’t go out at night. When an Arab bullet leaves its barrel, it doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the innocent.

  While Sacharson lamented the bullet’s error, Herbst kept on walking and thinking: Every day I hear the list of casualties – to think that I was almost one of them. I was spared today, but what about tomorrow and the day after? I live in a dangerous place, and I’m endangering both myself and my family. If I don’t move, I’m risking my life and theirs. What happened here? He reviewed exactly what had happened, replaying the sound of the shot as the bullet left the pistol, and realized that the danger had exceeded the terror, that terror isn’t always relative to danger.

  They walked on in silence. They were no longer afraid, but their hearts were distraught and heavy. Too bad it’s a moonless night, Herbst thought. It’s so delightful when there’s a moon. Something seems to be changing up there in the sky. It’s a fact, something is changing there. The moon is rising. We’ll have moonlight. We’ll have moonlight, but there’s no joy on this road. No joy. Our hearts are uneasy, uneasy, and we keep on walking without making any headway. Shira is already sleeping. She’s in her bed, asleep, unaware, knowing nothing of what happened to me. If the bullet had accomplished its mission, I would be dead by now. Tomorrow they would find me in a pool of blood and take me to the morgue at Hadassah or Bikkur Holim Hospital. Henrietta and Tamara would come and see it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t get home last night. It was because I was hit by a bullet and murdered, and my corpse is here for them to cry over. A crowd has gathered around them, men and women, friends and acquaintances. Those who know how to put on a sad face are doing just that; those who don’t know how, clench their lips and put on a look of outrage, at the murderers for victimizing the innocent and upright, at the Mandate government for standing by in silence. The Brit Shalom people find further support for their views: we can no longer depend on British soldiers to defend us but must be quick to come to terms with the Arabs at any price. Among those who surround me are some who didn’t know me at all, who never even heard of me, but, now that I’ve been defined by death, they feel obliged to join the crowd. Shira may have come too. No, Shira wouldn’t come. Shira is in her room, reproaching herself – she should have acceded when I begged to go home with her. Now for my funeral. Shira won’t be standing there with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, as she was during that young man’s funeral when the riots first began. How could it be that I didn’t think of Zahara? Am I to conclude that in emergencies we don’t necessarily think of what is most precious to us? As for Shira, it is not the soul that remembers her, but the body; the body – ungratified, remembering, like a worm that keeps wriggling after it is cut in two. My corpse. That’s how I refer to my body. That’s the correct term for such a body. For you, my soul, I would prefer a finer designation. By my calculations, I ought to be home by now. Actually not, I was mistaken. After the shot, we shifted paths. Now we are on the right track again. I should be grateful for Sacharson’s silence. One word could crush my head.

  Sacharson addressed Herbst. “I’m walking here, but my mind is somewhere else. I know we are in dangerous territory. Even if we are out of danger, it’s still necessary to be cautious, and we have to alert our senses to look, listen, smell, in case there is an Arab nearby scheming to kill us. Despite this, all my senses are elsewhere. I am pondering the event that occurred ten days ago here in Jerusalem. Yes, right here in Jerusalem, near Gethsemane. Some of the facts were reported in the Hebrew press, particularly in the Ha’aretz newspaper. I’m referring to the story of the two brothers who were killed together.” Sacharson brushed his hands over his eyes, stretched his thumb toward his collar, and pulled on it. Herbst took note of his gesture and concluded: He’s preparing to tell a long story, but, when we arrive at my house, I’ll leave, even if he’s in the middle of his story. Just because he’s my neighbor, does he have the right to harass me? Deep down, Herbst sensed it had less to do with the fact that they were neighbors than with what had just happened to them. The thought occurred to him: He said Gethsemane; the name relates to the event. This was followed by a further thought: What is there to lose by listening? Then he began to be worried that Sacharson had decided not to talk. Again, Sacharson reached toward his collar with his thumb. His eyes were enlarged by moonlight, and a great and bitter sadness dripped down from them, covering his face, wrinkles and all.

  He resembled an old woman peering into her own open grave with a bitter heart. They continued to walk, walking awhile, then stopping, stopping in silence. Sacharson seemed shorter; his cane seemed taller. He looked more and more like an old woman. The cane in his hand cast a shadow wrapped in shadow. Because he was staring at this shadow, Herbst forgot about Sacharson and the story he had in mind to tell.

  Sacharson stood still and leaned on the cane. After a bit, he raised his head and began walking again, muttering, “We were almost like those two brothers who were killed together. One of them had already found true faith and embarked on eternal life, whereas his brother was not equally privileged.” Sacharson’s eyes filled with tears, and he reached out to embrace Herbst but withdrew his arms midway, sighing. Herbst heard his mutterings and glanced at him although he had already forgotten the man wanted to tell him something. Sacharson hadn’t forgotten, and he began. As usual, he began in the middle. But for the fact that Herbst had read some of the facts in Ha’aretz, he wouldn’t have been able to follow. The story was roughly this: Two brothers, who were Jews, escaped from Hitler’s Germany. They wandered through many lands before arriving in Jerusalem. They fell on hard times and didn’t find what they were after. What were they after, and what was it that they hoped to find? I doubt this was clear to them. In any case, what they found was not what they were after, and what they were after they never found. This account is, more or less, what was reported by people who knew them fairly well. One of the brothers was so desperate that he converted and found himself room and board in a monastery in Gethsemane. The other brother found shelter in a Jewish school inside the wall, where he prayed a lot, entreated God, and fasted. Ten days ago, he set out from there to visit his brother, either because he missed him or to try to convince him to return to their fathers’ faith.

  Now I’ll tell the story as Sacharson told it, in his terms. “One of the young men enrolled in a school in the Old City, where he spent the time weeping and fasting, imploring God to have mercy on his brother and return him to his fathers’ faith. God, knowing what is best for man’s soul, closed His ears to the poor fellow’s pleas, ignored his fasts, and fortified the other brother’s faith in salvation. When weeks and months passed, and still the brother who had been saved didn’t return to his old faith, the unfortunate fellow went to Gethsemane to urge him to return to the religion of his fathers. Or, it may be that he went because he missed his brother. Oh, Mr. Herbst, do you know what it means to miss a brother? So, just ten days ago, he put aside his prayers and studies, and left for Gethsemane. He found his brother. They fell on each other’s necks and wept. Then they sat together and talked. What did they talk about? Only God knows. They may have discussed questions of faith, or they may have not mentioned them at all. Anyway, there is no reason to believe that either one of them was converted to his brother’s way. Finally, they got up to leave, walking part of the way together. An Arab spotted them and decided to shoot. One of them fell in a pool of blood. The other one bent over him, shouting, ‘My brother, my brother!’ While he wept over his brother, the Arab fired another shot. They died together, one on top of the other.”

  Herbst knew the story, and Sacharson had added nothing to it, except for his drone. He told it as if chanting a sacred text. From the moment Sacharson latc
hed onto him, Herbst was irritated. Now his irritation was compounded. At a time when there are so many victims, singling out one to mourn ignores the common plight. As for the brother who converted, his decision probably had very little to do with a quest for God. So why did he do it? To change his circumstances, because he was having a hard time. He was sick of it and began to cast about for alternatives. Whatever it was that he lacked seemed to exist in those other settings. He began to compare his own situation with what they offered. Meanwhile, he found an opening there, went in, and never came out. You want to know if his new faith was a success. Even if he tells you he’s happy, if you look at his face, it’s obvious that he’s dejected. Perhaps because his new faith requires that he believe what he doubted to begin with, and now he is lost in both worlds. Near the train tracks, in Lower Baka, Herbst used to see a sign with the names of two doctors, a husband and wife. He was in general practice, she was a gynecologist, and they had a Jewish name. One day, he noticed that a Christian name had replaced theirs. Several days later, he happened to be at Bamberger and Wahrmann, where he found some books with those two doctors’ bookplate, giving the name he had seen on their sign before it was changed. Bamberger told him he had bought the books from an Orthodox doctor who came from Frankfurt, that he and his wife had converted and purged their household of all Jewish books. If they had not been forced to leave their homeland, they would have lived their lives as Jews. They might have become leaders of the community. But, since they were uprooted and unable to thrive in the new environment, their spirits were low, their minds vulnerable, their hearts despondent. When the riots broke out and there were so many casualties, they began to have second thoughts about their Jewishness, which seemed to be a constant source of trouble. Because they were Jews, they had to leave Germany; and, because they were Jews, they were being persecuted in the Land of Israel. They finally said, “We don’t need all this trouble,” and converted, since being Jewish was merely a matter of religion to them. We have learned from Sacharson’s experience that their Arab neighbors won’t necessarily make a distinction between them and other Jews.